


Ownership

by artenon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Humor, Other, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 00:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artenon/pseuds/artenon
Summary: It’s almost definitely a bad idea. However, when theAziraphalewires and thehornywires cross in Crowley’s brain, everything seems like a good idea.(Or: Aziraphale finds a bracelet that blocks Crowley's power. They use it for sexy funtimes, which goes great. And then they go out while Crowley is wearing it, which goes... less great.)





	Ownership

**Author's Note:**

> cw: a human man harasses crowley while crowley has all the powers of a scrawny mortal. the harrassment is treated seriously but the overall tone of the fic is pretty light and (hopefully) funny, hence the humor tag
> 
> this is for a [kink meme prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=333928#cmt333928) that i filled a while back (the tl;dr of it is essentially the parenthetical in the fic summary), but didn't feel good enough about posting to ao3. i edited it a bit (ok, a lot. there's like 300 new words) and figured i could toss it up here now!

It’s almost definitely a bad idea. However, when the _Aziraphale_ wires and the _horny_ wires cross in Crowley’s brain, everything seems like a good idea.

Aziraphale found the bracelet along with an old demonology tome. He has a whole collection of books and research journals on supernatural beings, Aziraphale does, ranging from hilariously, utterly wrong to stunningly accurate. Crowley once tried to slip the Twilight saga in with the other vampire lore books as a joke, but that just landed him at the receiving end of an extremely long-winded lecture about how this collection was only for books written in good faith to be non-fiction. By the end of it, Aziraphale’s hands were covered in chalk dust. Also, there was a chalkboard in his back room that hadn’t existed previously.

(Looking back on it, Crowley still isn’t sure whether Aziraphale genuinely thought Crowley was being earnest and wanted to helpfully educate him on the parameters of his collection, or if he knew Crowley was trying to be a bastard and decided to be a bastard back.

Crowley loves him so much either way.)

The recently acquired demonology book, it should be noted, falls into the _stunningly accurate_ end of the spectrum, which is why the accompanying bracelet bears any interest.

So, the bracelet. It’s made of ash wood beads, each one with an ancient rune intricately carved into it. All together, it’s capable of more or less blocking a demon’s powers for as long as it’s worn, and once it’s on a demon, it can’t be removed by them.

“I ought to destroy it immediately,” Aziraphale said. “If someone were to use it against you, why, you’d be completely helpless.”

Crowley agreed that it seemed like a nasty piece of work. However, he would argue that even if his powers were blocked he would still have his wits and cleverness and therefore wouldn’t be _completely _helpless. Before he could say either of these things, though, Crowley’s brain got stuck on the image of Aziraphale tying him by the wrists to the headboard, and normally Crowley could unbind himself with a thought—not that he would want to, but he _could_—but this time he wouldn’t be able to, not with this bracelet on suppressing his powers. This time he would truly be at Aziraphale’s mercy, helpless as Aziraphale fucked him relentlessly, used him just as he pleased and then _left_ him there.

So. Dangerous bracelet. Probably should destroy it. Except the _Aziraphale_ wires and the _horny_ wires in Crowley’s brain were by this point completely tangled up, and so he said, “You should use it on me.”

“My dear—” Aziraphale began in a scandalized tone.

“Come on,” Crowley said. “Surprised you haven’t thought about it already. Sounds like just the thing you need to put me in my place.”

“This isn’t a _toy_, Crowley—”

“Remember last week? You wanted to fuck me. I didn’t make it easy on you, did I?” Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned his whole body towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale stood ramrod straight, mouth drawn flat. “You wanted to take your time, indulge in me like one of your favorite meals. Oh, I did not like that.”

He had. He’d liked it a lot.

Crowley grinned. “Could not. Stop. Complaining. Could I? You gagged me, I remember.” Gagged him and pressed his hips down hard into the mattress, and finally Crowley had gone pliant and let Aziraphale fuck him so, so slowly. “Oh, it would have been so easy to remove. I was just indulging you. That bracelet would’ve been nice then, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale swallowed audibly. His tongue darted out to lick his lips.

Crowley leaned a little closer, until their mouths were centimeters apart. “You’d have fun, wouldn’t you? Think about it. You could have me exactly how you want me, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop y—”

Aziraphale pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

They keep the bracelet.

* * *

Crowley fucking loves the bracelet, loves playing with it on. Sometimes when Aziraphale has him breathless and begging, Crowley reaches for his powers, and it’s such a thrill to hit the iron wall blocking access. Aziraphale loves it too; Crowley sees how dark his eyes get when he slips the bracelet onto Crowley’s wrist.

They don’t always play rough, so there’s usually some discussion or at least a question before the bracelet comes out. Today, Crowley puts it on before he’s confirmed if sex is even on the table.

It’s been a restless week. Restless for Crowley, anyway. Aziraphale just got a new shipment of books and he’s been reading them literally non-stop. And for supernatural entities that don’t require food or sleep, _literally_ does mean literally.

Crowley entertained himself: he slept, nipped back to his flat to water his plants, engaged in some minor demonic mischief, spontaneously attended a baking class he happened upon, tried the baklava recipe eight times at home until he was satisfied with it (which meant he thought Aziraphale would be satisfied with it), and slept some more.

Today, he puts the bracelet on, slinks into the back room of the bookshop and kneels on the floor by Aziraphale’s armchair. He presses himself beseechingly against the side of it until Aziraphale gets the hint and begins absently scratching his head. And that’s nice, Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair, blunt nails gentle against his scalp, the easy affection of it. Crowley closes his eyes and sinks into the sensation.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale says, after a while.

Crowley isn’t sure how long it’s actually been. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been hours. Aziraphale slips his hand down the back of Crowley’s head, scritches the short hairs at the base of his skull, and Crowley hums happily.

“Yes, angel?”

“If you wanted my attention,” Aziraphale says, “you could have just asked.”

“M’okay.” Crowley pushes his head up into Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale presses his fingers a little harder against him. Crowley melts. “But if you’re done now, you should kiss me.”

Aziraphale huffs a little laugh, then leans down and captures Crowley’s mouth. He cups Crowley’s jaw and coaxes him up. Crowley stands, stooped over so they don’t break apart. He ends up in Aziraphale’s lap, straddling his thighs and kissing him deeply, arms wound around Aziraphale’s back and shoulders.

It’s so easy to get lost in kissing Aziraphale, the slide of tongues and exchange of breath. Crowley will never tire of it, just as he’ll never tire of dinners and picnics and quiet nights in, of museums and movies, anything, as long as it’s with Aziraphale. Crowley will never tire of eternity so long as he has Aziraphale.

Aziraphale touches Crowley’s arm, runs his hand down the length of it and pauses at his wrist. Aziraphale stops kissing him then so he can hold Crowley’s arm up between them, thumb pressed against one of the beads of the bracelet.

There’s a question in his eyes, and Crowley squirms.

“I thought, if you wanted to, we could—you could—”

_Hold me down and fuck me like I’m the only thing that matters_, he doesn’t say, but Aziraphale smiles like he knows.

“Oh, dearest,” he says. “Of course.”

* * *

Even before the two of them officially _got together_, as it were, Aziraphale did have a bedroom, with a bed (tartan sheets, of course), just for appearance’s sake. Not that it mattered, because anyone entering the bedroom would easily surmise that Aziraphale never actually used his bed, given that it was completely covered with books overflowed from the shop below.

They keep the bed clear these days, thankfully.

Afterwards, after Aziraphale has shoved Crowley—and Crowley didn’t even have to consciously relax his muscles to let it happen; as long as Crowley’s got the bracelet on, Aziraphale’s angelic strength overpowers him without a thought—onto the bed and had his blessed, wicked way with him, Crowley melts into the space between Aziraphale’s arms like a snake who’s found the perfect sun-warm rock to bask on.

He becomes, in time, conscious of Aziraphale petting his hair, drawing him out of his fucked-out daze.

“Alright?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

Crowley nuzzles into his neck and says, “More than. You were perfect, angel, _ssss_so sososo good to me, fuck. I love you.”

Aziraphale sighs happily into Crowley’s hair. “I love you too, dearest.”

They lie like that for a bit, Aziraphale petting his hair on and off, Crowley pressing occasional kisses to Aziraphale’s neck. Crowley considers a nice post-coital nap, but Aziraphale doesn’t often sleep and would probably just get another book to read, and Crowley isn’t quite ready to give up his attention yet. Though if they keep lying down, Crowley might not be able to help dozing off.

He wriggles and puts a few inches of space between them so he can poke Aziraphale’s tummy.

“S’been a few days. Hungry?”

Angels and demons don’t need to eat, of course, but keep a routine of it long enough and you start to feel some fascilime of hunger once you’ve gone long enough without food. It’s the same reason that Crowley gets the urge to sleep most nights.

“Now that you mention it, yes,” Aziraphale says, though Crowley knows, of course, that Aziraphale will agree to food even if he’s not feeling peckish. “Shall we order in?”

“Nah, let’s go somewhere. If I don’t get up in a minute, I’m gonna fall asleep.”

Aziraphale rolls onto his back and sits upright. Crowley whines on reflex at the loss of cuddles.

Aziraphale tsks and pokes Crowley’s nose. “You’re the one who wants to go somewhere.”

“Yes, alright,” Crowley sighs. He rolls over inelegantly and half-falls, half-stands from the bed.

His mind is already mostly off the sex, busy wondering where they should go to eat, and he snaps his fingers without thinking to miracle his clothes back on. He’s thrown so off-guard when his Essence slams against the proverbial wall locking him out of his powers that he trips and almost falls.

Aziraphale catches him by the arm. “Dear, are you—”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Crowley says. “Forgot about the thing. Bracelet.” He laughs. “Imagine if I went out with it on!”

And then he stops laughing. Because the _Aziraphale _and _horny_ wires were already resting close to each other due to recent events, and it doesn’t take much to cross them again. It doesn’t take much at all.

“What if I went out with it on,” Crowley says.

“Dear,” Aziraphale starts. Then stops. His tongue darts over his lower lip.

Crowley tracks the movement. His dick stirs in interest, aching from all the orgasms Aziraphale has just wrung out of him but apparently still game for more.

“What if. You took me out. With it on,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale exhales shallowly. He doesn’t answer right away, but Crowley knows he has him. A second later, he nods.

“Dress me,” Aziraphale says. He tilts his chin slightly to the wardrobe. Their clothes hang there in a neat row, courtesy of a miracle on Aziraphale’s part soon after they made it upstairs.

This usually happens the other way around—their method of undressing and dressing, that is. Undressing is foreplay for Aziraphale, who relishes in piece by piece revealing more of themselves to each other. Today, though, Aziraphale pushed Crowley down onto the bed and removed their clothes with barely a blink. Crowley gets goosebumps again remembering how the air hit his suddenly-bare skin, all over, all at once.

(Oh, but Aziraphale is too good to him; Crowley loves when Aziraphale uses his powers while he can’t, even if it’s for something as simple as undressing them. Just a hint of what Aziraphale is capable of; of what Crowley currently isn’t.)

After they’ve finished with sex, there’s no reason not to reclothe themselves with a quick nudge of their powers—which, frankly, is Crowley’s preferred method of both putting clothes on and taking them off. Hey, it saves time, and buttons can be so fiddly.

The point is, Aziraphale could clothe them both with a miracle right now, but he doesn’t. Instead, he commands Crowley to dress him, and Crowley has to do it the manual way. Which means the game is still on.

“You could do it faster,” Crowley says, just to be a brat.

“I won’t ask twice,” Aziraphale says. “If you don’t want to go out…”

Crowley hurries for the wardrobe.

* * *

They end up in a pub, because even a food snob like Aziraphale can get a hankering for some good old pub food.

(Besides which, Crowley’s not sure how well a human understanding of _food snob_ even applies. Considering Aziraphale has sampled food throughout the entirety of human history, he can sometimes have unconventional ideas as to what constitutes _good food_.)

Crowley is unreasonably aroused as they sit at their secluded corner table, Aziraphale with his chicken in a basket, Crowley with his glass of cider. It’s all in the way Aziraphale’s eyes keep roving over him, loving and possessive; the way Aziraphale slides his hand up Crowley’s thigh, fingers dancing along the inner seam of his jeans only to withdraw when Crowley can’t keep the hitch out of his breath.

They chat like they usually do and don’t draw attention to the bracelet at all, and somehow that does it for Crowley, too. He presses his thighs together with a soft hiss, and Aziraphale catches his eye and smiles.

Aziraphale is talking about one of his new books when he suddenly breaks off and cocks his head. “Oh dear, there’s a prayer nearby.”

Crowley mirrors the movement out of habit, cocking his head, pointless though it is for a demon like him. “What’s up?”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together. His eyes are far away. “A mugging. I’m—”

Crowley waves his hand. “Go on, then. I’ll be here.”

Aziraphale’s attention pulls back to the table long enough to give Crowley a grateful smile. “Right. Back in a tick,” he says, and disappears.

“See ya,” Crowley says, though Aziraphale is already gone.

He pulls Aziraphale’s basket closer to himself so he can munch on some chips while he waits. He lazily caresses his thigh, because he has a Plan, and that Plan is to keep up his arousal until they go back home, at which point Aziraphale will suck him off, and then maybe fuck him.

Crowley’s work is rudely interrupted when a human man slides into Aziraphale’s vacant seat.

“This seat taken?” the guy asks.

“Yes.” Crowley scowls. This guy shouldn’t have even noticed him; doesn’t Crowley have his usual wards up? He goes for a mental nudge to make the guy suddenly realize he left his stove on back home—

—and rams right into the power-blocking wall.

Oh, bless it.

The guy leans in and Crowley leans away, but unfortunately there’s not much room since they’re at a corner table and Crowley’s seated by the wall.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the guy says. His breath stinks of beer.

Crowley sighs and stares at the table. “Not interested.”

“I’m Bill,” says Bill the Undeterred.

“Good for you.” Crowley eats a chip.

From his periphery, Crowley sees Bill also reach for the basket. Crowley catches his wrist and glares at him.

“Those aren’t for you.”

Bill laughs. He wrenches free from Crowley’s grip with startling ease, and Crowley abruptly becomes aware of the fact that a) physically, he is currently as strong as his lanky corporation looks, which is to say, not at all, and b) Bill is a large man who can certainly overpower Crowley in his current state with ease.

As Crowley watches, Bill pops a handful of chips into his mouth.

A helpless, floundering sort of panic seeps in. _Leave me alone_, he thinks, reflexively reaching out again and recoiling in shock when he hits the block again. _Stupid_, he berates himself.

“Shy, aren’t you?” Bill says. “Pretty guy like you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Crowley grinds out. His looks to the side to figure out if he can slip past somehow, but Bill shifts so he’s facing Crowley fully, blocking the rest of the pub with his body.

“Not anymore,” Bill says agreeably. He plants his hand on Crowley’s thigh, and Crowley just barely refrains from jumping.

Fuck, fuck, he’s still half-hard from teasing himself earlier, and his dick takes an interest in the renewed contact despite the roiling in his stomach. By the slow grin that overtakes Bill’s face, Crowley’s arousal hasn’t escaped his notice, either.

“Oh, you’re just desperate for it, aren’t you?” Bill slides his hand higher. Crowley jerks away, but Bill crowds closer. His knuckles brush over Crowley’s erection and Crowley bites his lip, hard.

“Yeah, I could tell you were a slut,” Bill says.

Crowley considers spitting in Bill’s face, but he’s fairly certain that’ll end with him getting clocked, and Crowley does _not _want to get punched while he’s powered down.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Just leave me alone.”

“I don’t think that’s really what you want, is it?” Bill says.

“It definitely is.”

Bill gives Crowley’s crotch an obvious once-over.

“Why don’t we get some air?” Bill says.

“No—” Crowley starts, but Bill is already dragging him up roughly by the arm.

Bill stands close, way way _way_ too close, dousing Crowley in his beer-and-grease breath. One hand is tightly closed around his bicep, and the other drifts down to squeeze Crowley’s ass.

“_Stop_—”

“Excuse me,” comes Aziraphale’s voice, sharp, and Crowley chokes on a relieved gasp.

“We’re busy here,” Bill says.

Aziraphale takes hold of Bill’s wrist. With a deft twist, he breaks Bill’s grip on Crowley’s arm. Bill’s shocked cry is muffled by Aziraphale’s hand clapping over his mouth.

Crowley scrambles behind Aziraphale, too shaken to do anything but watch as Aziraphale draws himself up to full height. Even then he isn’t taller than Bill, but his angelic essence looms enough to make up the difference and then some, invisible though it is, and Bill shrinks back as much as he can with Aziraphale still gripping him.

“Now, normally I would simply send you home with seeds of Remorse to hopefully guide you to a better path,” Aziraphale says calmly, so calmly. It’s at odds with the divine fury rolling off of him; he may as well be spitting holy fire. Crowley has no idea how none of his divinity is spilling out onto the material plane. But Aziraphale still sounds terrifyingly calm as he continues, “You wouldn’t even know I was there. Unfortunately for you, you made this personal when you dared to touch the person most precious to me, so I’m going to give you a warning.”

There’s a shifting of energy in the air, and there’s no way the divinity is being contained now. Crowley can’t see Aziraphale’s face from where he’s standing, but from the way Bill’s eyes bug out he guesses that Aziraphale is giving him a glimpse of one of his eldritch forms. Crowley hopes it’s the lion.

The air around them snaps back to normal, though Aziraphale’s anger doesn’t recede in the slightest.

“If you ever so much as look at him again, I will undermine every single good thing in your life. Am I understood?”

Bill, unable to give a verbal response with Aziraphale’s hand still clamped over his mouth, nods jerkily.

Aziraphale glares at him a moment longer. Crowley can feel a twist of energy; he’s not sure what Aziraphale is doing, but then an unmistakable stench hits his nose.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale says in obviously false shock. “You’re afraid you left the bath running?” He releases Bill. “Well, you’d better go check, dear fellow!”

Bill doesn’t so much as glance at Crowley. He bolts with a fearful squeak.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale whirls around to him, eyes wide with concern. “Crowley, love, are you alright?” His hands immediately go to Crowley’s wrist and slip the bracelet off.

The moment it’s off, Crowley reaches out mentally, feels the familiar pool of power now accessible to him. It relieves him more than he thought it would, especially considering that the danger has already passed, and he blows out a breath.

“Aziraphale,” he says again. He takes Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale squeezes reassuringly. Crowley feels a bit better. “Did you curse that guy to piss his pants?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says. “He did that on his own.” He looks askance and mumbles something.

“What?” Crowley says.

“I did curse him with head lice though,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley huffs a laugh.

“It’s better than he deserved,” Aziraphale said. “For—for touching you like that, acting like he _owned_ you…”

“Right, you’re the only one who gets to own me,” Crowley teases, and it is precisely the wrong thing to say, because Aziraphale looks _anguished_.

“That’s—it’s _play_, I would never—”

“I know, angel, I know,” Crowley says quickly. “Bad joke. Sorry. Trying to deflect. I’m just—ugh. Feel stupid letting a human shake me up like that. Should’ve been able to handle him.”

“It’s not your fault,” Aziraphale says, glaring at the bracelet in his hand, the one not holding Crowley’s.

“Not your fault either,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale looks up, startled. “You didn’t abandon me, okay? We couldn’t have known something would happen. And I’m the one who suggested going out with the thing on.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slump. “I know it’s that man’s fault for behaving the way he did but I still can’t help but feel responsible.”

“I know,” Crowley says, because he’s blaming himself too. “But it’s not your fault. I’ll tell you as much as I need to.” He gives their joined hands a tug. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I learned how to make baklava this week, you’ll love it.”

Aziraphale hesitates, looking for all the world like a sad puppy. That not even food could elicit a reaction is pretty impressive, and Crowley tries again.

“Thanks for swooping in to my defense and all that,” he says. “You know, the whole vengeful angel thing is pretty hot on you—”

_That_ gets his hand a warning squeeze. “Do shut up, love.”

Crowley grins and leads the way home.

* * *

Though he tries his damndest to shrug it off, Crowley can’t. And he hates that, hates that he lets the incident get to him, that he can’t easily slip the bracelet on for a while after. Aziraphale, very reasonably in his opinion, wants to destroy it, but Crowley stops him. It’s fine as long as they just use it in private like before, isn’t it? Except sometimes he looks at it and his stomach rolls.

They don’t play rough for a little bit.

When they do, they go back to just pretending that Crowley can’t miracle out of his handcuffs with barely a thought, to pretending that when Aziraphale shoves Crowley up against a wall, Crowley can’t push him back with equally preternatural strength.

Eventually they work the bracelet back in, and it’s fine, because it’s just a game, and Crowley can stop it whenever he wants (he absolutely doesn’t want to). Thing is, even though it was a bad joke at a bad time, Crowley really does like feeling owned by Aziraphale, and he wants to go out with Aziraphale while feeling that quiet thrill again. Like, yes, see this angel? I _belong_ to him, and aren’t I the luckiest bastard?

He’s not going out with the bracelet on again, though. When he’s not distracted by horny thoughts, he can recognize it for the terrible idea that it is. Even if Aziraphale stays glued to his side, it’s too unpredictable out there—who knows what might happen next time. Discorporation was annoying enough when he _wasn’t_ in Hell’s bad books.

But still he wishes for… something.

As always, Crowley doesn’t have to say anything, or even know what it is that he wants really, for Aziraphale to know.

“I have something for you,” Aziraphale says one day. He has a smallish box in his hands, which he holds out to Crowley.

Aziraphale’s manner is entirely casual; when Crowley takes it and pops the lid open, he has no reason to expect anything other than some sort of jewelry, pretty but without implication. Instead he finds a black leather collar resting on a red velvet pillow. Crowley’s head shoots back up to stare at Aziraphale, a blush rapidly overtaking his face.

Aziraphale is blushing too, now, and he smiles. “I thought perhaps you’d like to wear it out with me sometime.”

“Y—yeah, definitely, holy fuck, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. And then, because he has no idea how to contain all the emotions he is currently experiencing into words: “I love you.”

Aziraphale laughs brightly. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

“I love you too…” Aziraphale fidgets, then adds, almost tentatively, “...pet.”

A shudder runs through Crowley’s entire body. “Bed,” he croaks. “Now.”

“Are you telling me what to do?” Aziraphale asks, all innocent bastardry, and fuck Crowley if that tone’s not another beautiful sound (and fuck him if it _is_).

“I am. Suggesting,” Crowley says.

“In that case,” Aziraphale says, and sweeps Crowley into his arms. “The bed is an excellent suggestion, my dear.”


End file.
